


a sense of scale

by ourseparatedcities



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 22:49:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2750021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourseparatedcities/pseuds/ourseparatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a rumor swirling around Madrid that Pep Guardiola has expressed an interest in Sergio Ramos for his team. When Iker hears about it, it scratches at old wounds and opens up new ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a sense of scale

The dregs of sunlight dwindle away into darkness just beyond the glass panes, the patio doors left slightly ajar in respect for the last few moments of autumn. Winter approaches, Iker knows, felt it earlier when he tugged a black wool beanie onto his head on his way into practice, in the way the wind honed itself into a fine, sharp edge. But now is comfortable coolness and the small yet solid weight of Martin on his lap, all warmth and wide-eyed fascination at a button resting at the collar of his sweater. Iker clicks the tv on, lets the even, measured tones of the evening news reporter filter into the room, allows it to recede into the background in favor of his son. His short little fingers grab at the tab greedily, giving it a few curious tugs before releasing, staring unblinkingly as though in serious contemplation. 

Iker’s laugh tumbles out more an exhale than a sound, but he doesn’t want to disrupt this moment, hoarding it away with all the other memories he’s gathered. Eyes that are his own, and yet not quite, captured in a smaller frame, those same uncoordinated hands grasping demandingly at his cheeks, the powder-fresh scent that lingers on his skin even at the end of the day. He traces the pad of his thumb along the edge of Martin’s forehead, feels the delicate baby hair fluttering against the side of his hand and indulges in a gentle kiss to the top of his head. Those owlish eyes turn up toward him now and those chubby fingers latch onto his bottom lip and the breath is trapped inside Iker’s lungs, cloying as he tries to remind himself that this is real, this is for keeps. This is commonplace. His wide palm nearly swallows Martin’s own as he takes it, presses his mouth now to the center of his son’s hand and feels the fear and joy click into balance.

The television screen flashes and his eyes flicker up, catching sight of a picture of a beaming Sergio behind the news reporter. He flips the sound on, prepared for wry amusement over discussion of Sergio’s latest booking or some salacious bit of scandal that will be forgotten in a few days, but insteads hears, 

“Was Xabi Alonso only the first in Pep Guardiola’s plans to mine resources for Bayern Munich from Real Madrid? There’s been talk of the former Barcelona coach showing interest in Sergio Ramos, going so far as to contact the managing team behind the vice-captain.”

A furrow forms between Iker’s brow and Martin picks up on the sudden tension instantly, begins to fuss in his lap, body wriggling in frustration as his tiny bow mouth parts to let out tiny whines. Iker smooths a hand down his back, his gaze glued to the screen as the reporter continues. 

“While the defender has been with _los blancos_ for nearly a decade and his contract isn’t set to expire for another three years, could this news spell trouble for Carlo  Ancelotti’s currently winning team?”

The gentle affection isn’t enough and Martin’s cries become more petulant, a high-pitched mewling that forces Iker to break eye contact with the screen, glancing down as his son’s hands knead at his sweater insistently. Iker tells himself it is the lateness of the hour, that Martin is made cranky by exhaustion and not some inexplicable, uncomprehending sense of empathy small children possess. He convinces himself that he’s not bothered by the news, or he tries, but the way his hands are a shade off steady when he flicks off the tv gives him away.

 

~

 

He arrives late to practice the next day and is thankful when no one notices much. It gives him leave to keep his lips pressed together in a thin line, lets the words from the night before roll around in his head like a washing machine, until everything else is cleansed away except the thing itself, starkly clean, stripped down until it is nearly unrecognizable. There’s a ball whizzing past his ear when he chides himself for being foolish, there’s a nutmeg through his too-wide stance to crash into the net, another that licks along his forearm before curling into a corner. Hierro gives him a look, pats a hand on his shoulder with as much kindness as he can muster before telling him to get his head in the game.

But it’s already too full, he wants to say. There is no room for anything else. This is why he avoids it. This is a lesson he’s already learned, carved it out like younger lovers do on the spine of a tree. He has forced himself to accept that caring is costly, that it is always accompanied by loss, like an eternal shadow looming over the whole. He has etched this into himself until the raw flesh is visible beneath the hardened bark, watched the wound scab over. But this is the way of scars, that they form in the shape of the trauma itself, that the imprint from the devastation is permanent.

He whiles away the remaining half of an hour, manages three saves based purely on muscle memory, on the way his calves tense and he’s on his toes springing forward before he can clear the fog clouding his thoughts. His glance wanders without permission, settling on where the other players are gathered in groups, lingers on the slightly shy, unsure way in which James approaches the activity. It happens every time, if only for a negligible second, as though the Colombian hasn’t quite become accustomed to the idea that they might want him here as much as he wants to be here himself, or more, that he might belong here.

Cristiano swats at his side and James’ grin is dazzling, all teeth and brown eyes squinting underneath the weight of his joy. Sergio throws his arm around the midfielder’s neck and James drops his head to his shoulder with an easy grace, like they’ve done this a dozen times and perhaps they have. It’s the way of him, Iker knows, to bestow his affections on others, often and to many and without asking for a thing in return. He’s figured out, because he’s made a study of Sergio, that it’s less about the person on the receiving and more borne of some natural urge in the defender himself, a compulsion to adore. Maybe it’s the sound of Pacheco shouting at Keylor, maybe it’s the way the cold wind whips at the snood around his neck, maybe it’s because Iker’s gaze is heavy, drags across the sliver of skin exposed between the wool and the long-sleeved kit. But suddenly he is trapped in those rich, dark amber eyes, a familiar curve of the lips and a crook of the eyebrows greeting him. 

The next ball slams into Iker’s hip, the breath knocked out of his throat in pain as his gloved fingers grapple for it, torso curling protectively forward. He’s barely finished lifting his head when Sergio’s hand finds purchase on the side of his neck, thumb resting just beneath his earlobe as he leans in. His breath is a caress on his cheek, as delicate as the fan of his thick, dark lashes that Iker cannot bring himself to ignore from such proximity.

“You okay?” His voice is softly concerned, fingertips soothing and tender along the hair at the back of his neck. There’s a sharp pinprick of an impulse that tells him to be petty, to push Sergio away and gather up all the emotions that have spilled out, like an upended Christmas stocking. But the hint of worry in Sergio’s voice is too sincere, as though they are not men who have chosen lives that come with aches and bruises and injuries, weighty with stories that they exchange like soldiers on a battlefield. He nods and has to close his eyes when Sergio’s lips press again his temple, hasty and dry. 

“I’m fine.” 

“Your face didn’t think so.” 

“I’m fine,” he repeats, straightening as his thumb slips into the of his gloves, peels apart the velcro. “Promise.” 

Sergio seems skeptical, his other hand twitching by his side like he’s considering touching tentative fingers to check for himself. It makes Iker feel suddenly small and petty for his earlier urge, and he has to look away as he feels shame flushing up his cheeks. He leans in enough to brush his smooth cheek against Sergio’s slightly scruffier one in something akin to apology, something like affirmation. 

He can feel the twinge of bone protesting underneath skin that is surely marred, but it’s blunted by the way Sergio’s thumb pushes up right underneath his earlobe, swipes along the sensitive flesh. 

The shrill cry of the whistle shatters the stillness, makes Iker blink up at Sergio and then down at his hands. Before he can stop him, Sergio’s long fingers are finding the curve in the opening of his gloves, splitting apart the two velcro sides and deliberately tugging to release Iker’s hands from inside them. 

“Come over for lunch?” Sergio requests, lets his knuckles linger when they brush against  the warmth of the inside of Iker’s palm. 

“But I’m actually hungry.” 

Sergio doesn’t hesitate, just elbows him in the stomach on the side that wasn’t hit by the ball.

“I have food.”

“Six bottles of wine and a half dozen packets of Tic Tacs do not count as food, _nene_.” 

“I can take back the offer,” Sergio threatens, smacks Iker in the chest with his own gloves though his grin hasn’t dimmed the slightest bit. 

Sergio walks too close on the way back inside, his elbow jostling Iker’s side at least three times, but the goalkeeper tolerates it as a confirmation of his presence.

He reminds himself that this is not the same cautionary tale, that the cast of characters is different, that he no longer fits into the mold he shaped for himself nearly a decade ago. He knows, of course he knows. By the time they’re settled into Iker’s car, Sergio fiddling around with the cords to hook up his iPod and finally, Paco de Lucia’s “ _Entre dos Aguas_ ” sizzles into the space, he very nearly believes it.

 

~

 

He plops into his seat on the sidelines of the Bernabéu with a groan. It still makes him edgy, drives him to gritted teeth and protruding knuckles gone white and a concave spine, to sharp, unwelcoming points when he finds himself on the bench during a game. He knows Navas deserves playing time, that it is no reflection on him to have the man named "Best Portero" of the previous season take his place on the field. But that is how he thinks of it, how he’ll always think of it. Even after he has retired, even after his legs give way and his hands are not strong enough to bear their burdens, that measure of earth between two white posts will always belong to him.

He stays frozen in that position, body curled inward, slumped forward in his seat. When Sergio’s goal slips by Rayo Vallecano’s Cristian Álvarez, Iker’s up on his feet, his own cheers drowned by in the roar of the stadium. Later, when James’ failed pass turns into a goal Navas isn’t able to save, he feels the briefest flicker of something ugly and unkind, smothers it with contentment over their victory and the memory of Sergio turning his head a beat after his goal to beam in his direction. Or maybe he imagines it.

Afterwards, he finds himself  trying to pick out Sergio in the mass of players in white with their arms around one another, exchanging slaps on the back and hugs to celebrate the latest in their winning streak. It’s lighter now than he remembers it being just a year ago, the atmosphere, the lack of tension in their smiles, the easy way they tease one another. He catches sight of the tattoo behind his ear as one of the pseudo-journos latches onto Sergio for a comment about his goal.

Iker slows his steps but continues on, is close by when he hears the other man ask, “What are your thoughts about Pep Guardiola showing interest in you?” 

A scoff slips out of Sergio’s throat at the question, before he smirks.   

“I think maybe I am an interesting player.” Dani chortles as he wanders by, smacks a hand on his fellow defender’s side at the reply. 

“So there’s no truth to the rumor of a possible move in the near future for you?” He needles and Sergio waves dismissively at the man, laughs over at Dani who swings his arm over Sergio’s shoulder before they disappear into the tunnel. 

Iker stuffs his hands inside of his pockets, doesn’t follow after them. It’s not until he’s sitting with his hands clutching violently at his steering wheel that he allows himself to acknowledge the sudden roiling sensation in his gut, the furious beat of his pulse thudding against skin. 

He stops by a liquor store he doesn’t know the name of, buys the first thing of rum that looks like a decent size, nods when they ask if he’d like a paper bag. He sets it down gingerly on the passenger seat, like something precious and fragile, maybe a heart, and drives. There are places in Madrid that belong to him as well, forgotten hollows of topography that he has memorized because this isn’t the first time. _(It probably won’t be the last. He’s always been this, this intensity_.) He drives into the darkness, feels the ever-shifting night swallow his car as he follows the sinuous, solitary curve of the road carved into the hillside, the path leading to La Pedriza further down.

It’s maybe 15 minutes to where he wants to go, close enough to the city that the brilliant glow of the Bernabéu can be seen but far enough that it carries with it no warmth. He heads into the mini-clearing, an impromptu lookout point, and parks there, a few feet from the ledge. The car stays on, the low rumble of the engine disrupting the serenity of absolute silence, pulls off one of his gloves to fumble with the top of the rum.

The first tug straight from the bottle makes him grimace, reminds him why he doesn’t do this more often, but the heat flows down his chest like little licks before settling in his stomach. It tempers the jagged shard of fear he seems to have swallowed, that’s made a horror tableau of his emotions. He takes another, and then another, and then another more. He takes as many as needed to keep him from feeling like he’s been flung off the edge of the cliff, hurtled into a grave he’s dug out with his own hands. The bottle’s half empty but his hands are no longer shaking, his limbs no longer frozen.

He reaches for the phone without allowing himself to ask why, notices that he has four missed calls, two from Sergio, one from Sara, one from Isco. His thumb isn’t as quick as his thoughts, which are racing forward on coltish legs, wobbling, stumbling, grappling against surrender, and it takes him a few tries before he finally makes it into his contact list, finds the name he’s been avoiding saying, thinking, acknowledging for the past few days. It’s a corpse rotting in the center of a room, obscured by a blood-red sea of roses paying their respects, and he can almost forget it’s there except for the sickly-sweet scent that lingers on the breeze, haunts him. He knows it’s there, of course he knows. 

The line rings five times, and then cuts to voicemail. He ends the call even before the first syllable is uttered, relief coating his throat as he takes another drag from the bottle.

The phone vibrates in his palm and his teeth clatter against the glass at the bottle’s mouth in surprise, blinking blearily down at his phone when he sees the same picture as only a moment ago. 

“ _Ho_ …Hello.” He clears his throat.

“Iker?” the voice crackles through the speaker, slightly disbelieving. 

“David,” he whispers, sharp and breathless,  wonders if the word comes out rusty from disuse. 

“Iker,” he repeats, a rustle of air. “ _Hola_.”

His voice is so achingly, acutely familiar that Iker presses his hand to his chest, rubs the heel of it directly over his heart as though it will ease the way his ribcage slams shut. If he closes his eyes, he could almost be 23 years old again, tender-skinned, soft-hearted, with knees that do not foretell the passing of a storm.

“ _Hola_. How are you?” he offers, like a parrot mimicking politeness. His tongue is dragging through quicksand and his mind is no better.  

“I’m good. We’re all good. How are you?”

“I am okay. Martin and Sara are good.”

He thinks it’s cruel that time and distance have allowed the cavern between them to grow wider, but made nothing easier, erased nothing. Iker knows they are no longer wear the same skin, but he can remember the old one with such excruciating clarity that it feels close, less than impossible.

“Do you remember the snow?”

It’s tumbles from his lips before he can even try to catch it.

“What?”

“It was your first season here, and your Spanish was still terrible and your hair kept falling into your eyes. It was freezing that morning, and I had just lost my hat. We got to La Ciudad before the others, while it was still raining, and then it started to snow.”

“Of course I remember,” David replies when Iker pauses in his rambling to breathe. He continues on as if David hadn’t spoken.

“It wasn’t my first snow, but it was a rare thing in Madrid. But you,” Iker digs the side of a curved nail into skin that readily submits to the torture. “You were...enchanted. You dragged me outside by my elbow, ignored my protests and just pulled harder when I shouted that I didn’t have a hat. You were a big bully.” 

David’s laugh is resonant and heady, drapes over Iker like well-worn wool. 

“You threw it right at my neck, like you were aiming for it. I cursed at you when it fell down the back of my shirt. You laughed so hard that your cheeks turned bright red and when I smashed snow into your face, it melted even faster. It got everywhere, collected on our shoulders, on your hat, in my hair, but we didn’t stop.”

“Iker,” David ventures.

“Finally, I think I started shaking because my hair was so wet and the wind wouldn’t stop, so you led us back inside. And maybe a step inside those doors, you stopped me, brushed the remaining snow from my hair with your hands. You didn’t need to. We were going to shower, but you did anyway.”

“I wanted to.” Iker wants to ask if he means clearing the snow or touching him.

He stops again, swipes his tongue over his bottom lip to give himself a moment before venturing further.

“I would have stayed inside if not for you.”

“You probably would’ve.”

“That was the day. That was when I knew.” Iker doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t need to.

He wonders if his breathing sounds as ragged as David’s does on the other end, like his lungs are punctured, like he’s raced up too many flights of stairs, like it’s an effort.

“What is it that you’re really trying to say, Iker?”

“Would you have stayed if I had asked?”

He tallies up every second of silence, counting to himself as he allows a few more sips from the bottle. It’s more empty than full now.

“I left because Capello wanted me gone and Calderón agreed,” David explains, like this isn’t something Iker’s turned over and over in his head, examined every crevice and corner of in order to make sense of it. Like Iker hasn’t felt the rough pieces of it split apart inside of him.

He nods, more to himself than to David.

“So it wouldn’t have changed anything if I had told you then.”

“That’s not what I said,” David clarifies, his voice firm.

“You said…” Iker is interrupted.

“That the manager and the president of the club were willing to sign me away, yes. That much wouldn’t have changed. But I could’ve fought harder, negotiated smarter and for longer instead of walking away, could’ve...”

“You could’ve, what, accepted less than you deserve?” David is interrupted this time.

“I would’ve known.” Here is the first hint of it, the harshly-wrought temper of David’s. “I would have known then, while it was happening. You never...it took you years to say it back. And even then, only in return. Only once have you told me how you felt on your own, and only because I was leaving.” 

“I wanted you to know.”

“Not until it was too late. Not until you had the safe distance of an observer, instead of someone inside the storm. You knew then, but you waited nearly a decade to tell me. You don’t think that’s…” He trails off, and Iker knows David only pulls his punches when they’re truly brutal and sure to land. He goads, ever the masochist.

“I’m, what?”

“Frustrating,” David finishes, and it’s too anti-climatic to be the truth. 

“What were you going to say?” David sighs heavily on the other side.  

“Cowardly.” Iker’s pulse stutters at his throat as the jab connects, pain blooming like a bruise.

“Ah.”

“Why are you really calling, Iker?” David suggests, resignation coating his words. It shouldn’t surprise Iker how well David understands and he can’t decide if it’s a sign of his predictability or the intuition the Englishman’s always possessed when it comes to Iker.

“They’re saying Pep’s interested in Sergio.”

“So?” David starts before it clicks and his laughter is a recrimination, bitter with awareness. “Sergio is not me.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

He knows, of course he knows.

“But he isn’t me either,” Iker confesses. He wants to tell David that Sergio is a Sevillan, that he wasn’t born with blanco pride streaking his veins, that he was glorious the first season Iker saw him play with Sevilla’s team. That there are times, like when his arms surround Alberto Moreno in an embrace or when he’s talking animatedly about bullfighting, when Iker wonders if he gets homesick sometimes, if home is still a place with salt and sea.

“He is as much a madridista as you.”

“I know.”

“Then?”

The hand not grasping at the phone shakes on the steering wheel, Iker peering straight out into the wide expanse of late night, marred only by the glimmer of city lights.  

“It wouldn’t be the same. It would be worse.” It’s all he can manage to choke out before his throat tightens. Even here, far away from the city, even now, he cannot bring himself to admit that losing David had left him hollow, as though someone had carved out the part of him that laughed easily, that joined in without invitation, that was selfish and demanding of affection. On a particularly difficult day, he still avoids the last shower near the wall because he can remember in vivid detail the way they kissed against those tiles. But David was only a person.   

Sergio is...Sergio is in every memory worth recalling. He’s in the booth at every restaurant, cheeks pink from wine and raucous laughter echoing the room, in Iker’s bed pressing his cold toes against the side of his body to get a reaction, in the tunnel before a game, mouth brushing over his cheek or the corner of his own or his forehead, in South Africa and Lisbon and Cibeles. He is sitting beside Iker, the first to raise his glass after Cristiano finishes giving a speech about how much their captain means to him. Sergio’s face is blurred then, by emotion, but his hand touches Iker’s knee under the table and it’s enough. He’s more than the club and the sport and the achievements. He’s camaraderie, he’s the team, he’s the humanizing element in Iker’s life. Sergio drags Iker reluctantly into the snow when his instinct is to stay inside. 

David is a person, but Sergio is home.

“Iker, you...you’re in Madrid and you’re boarding up your house for a monsoon. You’re preparing for a disaster that isn’t coming. It’s not. It’s just not.” His voice is unrelenting and leaves no room for doubt, even though they’re still there inside of Iker. But his tone is absolute and it calms Iker.

“Okay.”

“But you should tell him anyway. Not because he’s leaving, and not because it would change things if he was, but for him.”

“Okay,” Iker acquiesces, because the alcohol’s thoroughly saturated his system and everything is coated in gauze. He shakes his head and forces his tongue to obey. “David?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

David lets out an amused puff of air, a half laugh.

“I guess it’s what friends do.”

“Are we friends?”

“We're closer to it than we were.”

Iker’s laugh sputters out of his chest. 

“It’ll be okay, Iker.”

“Okay. Goodnight.”

" _Adios_."  

When he hangs up, he has two more missed calls from Sergio and Sara each, six texts and a bunch of unread messages from the Real Madrid WhatsApp group. He drops his head against back the rest, closes his eyes as he tries to collect the exact words he wants to say to Sergio. He falls asleep with the phone in his hand, the fifth call from Sergio flashing on his screen.

 

~

 

The sun is barely peeking out, splashes of gold and fire illuminating the horizon when Iker’s eyelids flutter apart. The pounding at the base of his skull is instant, insistent as he presses his forehead to the top of the steering wheel with a groan. Wildly, he searches for his phone and finds it in the sliver of space between his seat and the console. He hits the first speed dial as he drags a hand through his hair.

She answers on the first ring.

“Iker?”

“Sara, I’m fine, I’m fine. I just needed...I went to get a drink after the game and then I had too many, so I fell asleep in my car.” He rushes it all out in one breath. 

“You should’ve called,” she chides him, can imagine her standing with a hand on her hip. He can tell from her tone that she's more concerned than furious and finds himself smiling fondly.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Alright. I’m at work, and Martin’s with the nanny, so you have to pick him up later. Can you do that?” 

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry, really.” 

“We all need our moments. Oh, but call Sergio. He’s been worried too.” There’s an undercurrent of something warm and tender in the way she says it, like she cares about him. Maybe that is the sort of innate empathy that comes from loving the same man. 

“I will.” He doesn’t say it first.

“I love you.” 

“Love you too,” he agrees. 

It takes him longer to get back into the city, because he stops by the first trash can he sees and dumps the bottle. His mouth feels disgusting, like he’s swallowed moth balls wrapped in cotton. He parks beside Sergio’s car in the driveway, closes the door quietly in case the defender’s still asleep. The key slides into the lock with a light snick and the door whines just a hint when he slides it open. He’s bending down to kick off his shoes when he hears,

“Iker?”

His head whips up and there is Sergio, sitting on the corner of his sofa with a thin blanket haphazardly thrown over his body, rubbing the light sleep from his eyes. His toes are exposed and they touch the floor first when he unfurls himself from the couch and launches himself at Iker. The portero’s arms slip easily around him, one cupping the back of his head, the other on the small of his back as Sergio buries his nose in the crook of his neck. 

He pulls himself back too soon and smacks Iker squarely in the chest, hard enough that Iker winces. 

“Where have you been?” 

“Ow. I just went to grab a drink and then it turned into more than one, and I just passed out in my car. I’m fine, Sese.” 

“If you were fine, why didn’t you answer my calls, or text me back?” He peers up at Iker’s face with tawny eyes that spark underneath the quiet anger.

“I just needed a moment to myself, yeah?” Iker bends down again to slip off the other shoe, kicks it aside with a dull thud. His fingers are reaching for his zipper when Sergio beats him to it, pulls until it hisses down to the bottom. Iker shrugs out of it himself before maneuvering around Sergio’s body to drop it onto the arm of the couch.

“What’s wrong, Ikercio?” Iker very nearly turns around with a smile that stretches too wide on his lips, but David’s words are too fresh, too raw. He closes his hand into a fist and barrels forward.

“You didn’t say no.” 

“What?” Iker turns then, feels the back of the couch press against his side as his hands fidget near his pockets. He forces himself to keep them out.

“To the reporter at the game yesterday. You didn’t say no. You laughed it off but you didn’t say it.” Iker keeps his eyes focused very pointedly on Sergio’s shoulder, on the exposed curve of collarbone.

“Because he’s not even a real reporter. He works for a cage liner, you know that. Why would I give him the dignity of a response?”  

Iker shrugs and he pushes himself to lift his eyes, to meet Sergio’s, and the affection is expected, but the hurt isn’t.

“Sergio,” Iker mumbles plaintively.

“Did you think Pep showing interest would change things, would mean anything to me?” The detached quality of his words makes guilt churn inside Iker.

“No, but…” _It terrified me, the possibility. That you might._

“Iker,” Sergio mutters with a wry shake of his head. He can tell from the way Sergio purses his lips that he's quelling whatever harsher emotions he's feeling, overpowering his desire to reprimand him. Instead, he moves towards the older man, skims a hand along his jawline before cupping his cheek and forcing him to meet his eyes. “You really are an idiot sometimes.”

He considers arguing with it but after last night, he thinks maybe there’s some truth to it. His gaze is trained on the bridge of Sergio’s nose, because his heartbeat already feels erratic inside his chest.

“I didn’t want you to go.”

“I’m not,” Sergio whispers, his breath against the corner of Iker’s lips and then his mouth, a lazy nuzzle. He pulls back slightly to add, “And especially not to Bayern.”

“I know,” he responds, with a low laugh. Of course he knows. Iker presses his nose into the side of Sergio’s, in the way that tickles and makes the younger man chuckle, and it works. He leans in even closer and kisses the sound from his mouth, touches his tongue to the happiness working its way from the Sevillan’s throat. Neither of them deepen the kiss and the untempered, selfless way that Sergio’s mouth moves against his makes Iker feel light-headed. It's as much for himself as it is for Iker. Sergio kisses like it will fix everything, and sometimes it does.

Iker drops his forehead onto Sergio’s shoulder, lets himself be held and comforted by the smooth glide of the younger man’s hands down his back.

“Did you sleep on the couch?” Iker wonders aloud, muffled against Sergio’s shirt. He feels the nod against the side of his ear and straightens. "Siesta, then." 

Iker grabs hold on the hem of Sergio’s shirt, tugs it forward and leads them toward the bedroom. He’s moving to guide him up onto the bed when the younger man shakes his head and pushes Iker down onto the edge, the keeper landing with a faint ruffling of the sheets. Sergio kneels down between Iker’s legs, grasps the bottom of the sweater between three fingers and lifts it upward, flicking it aside before dotting the center of his sternum with a kiss. His fingers are undoing the button on his jeans when Iker leans down, cradles Sergio face in trembling hands and meets his darkened honey eyes. His voice strains underneath the weight of his words but he knows he must.

“I love you.” Sergio’s grin is magnificently asymmetrical, a smug upturn of the left corner of his mouth.

“I know,” he retorts, arches forward to playfully nip at the edge of Iker’s jaw.

Of course he knows.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you leave me a comment, you're a perfect angel sent by James Rodriguez from heaven. 
> 
> for those who are curious, Bayern's sporting director, Matthias Sammer, quashed the rumors within maybe a day or of them surfacing. as far as i know, the source of them was the "rmadridhome" twitter account so, there wasn't much substance to them but has that ever stopped a bit of gossip? anywho, i have a tumblr under the same name so feel free to chat with me :)


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